Crossing Boundaries
by idratherbeinthesun
Summary: Santana's solo Thanksgiving is crashed by her former frenemy. I couldn't decide whether to do Quinntana or Dantana, so I split the verse as two separate fics with the same opening sequence
1. Meg Ryan

When Santana high-tailed it to New York, there were a few things she definitely overlooked: 1) If the heat went out at home, all it took was a simple match to re-ignite the pilot light. In the city that never sleeps, especially in Santana's warehouse-turned-loft apartment, a busted radiator meant living in parkas and Uggs for at least two weeks until the Super finally caved and called for a fix. 2) The snow in New York is an entirely different beast. In Lima, the winter wonderland is soft and fluffy, something out of a fairytale. New York snow is literally frozen ice that sticks to the ground in hopes of sending city-dwellers to the ER. And 3) The cost of flights during the holidays was ludicrous. Sure, Santana could attempt to scrounge up enough money to foot the bill, but that would also mean not eating for a week. And while she loved her mom's cooking and the way her family seemed enthralled by her stories of the Big Apple, Santana just couldn't justify dropping $700 for three nights in Lima. She'd be home for Christmas anyway. At least that's what she told herself to fend off the impending loneliness of spending Thanksgiving alone eating microwavable Fettuccini Alfredo and binge watching The Walking Dead.

Rachel left on Wednesday night, her Bambi-eyed apology making Santana roll her eyes and submit to a tight hug goodbye. Kurt would still be in New York with Elliot, but Santana refused to be the third wheel of that queercycle. And Dani? Well, Dani hadn't returned any of Santana's calls since she came clean about kissing Brittany on her trip home for the fourth of July. What a mess. Maybe Santana did need this time alone.

Thanksgiving morning wasn't so bad. Santana created a blanket cocoon and semi-watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade as it traveled the length of Central Park. She was snacking on dark chocolate Milanos when her phone vibrated against her thigh. She had been texting Quinn all morning about how wanky the balloon Spiderman's hand pose looked. Quinn criticized her gutter mind, but Santana knew she was smiling at her phone.

By 2 o'clock, Santana had ventured from the warmth of her bed and walked laps around her living room and kitchen. She'd called her mom, the whole family shouting on speaker phone to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving in a mix of English and Spanish.

"I'm great, mom. Honest. Es la verdad," Santana soothed, laying back on the couch and hooking her legs over the arm. "I'm having dinner with Kurt and Elliot later, so I have to start getting ready," she lied, trying to put her mother at ease. Maribel wasn't easily fooled. "Feliz dia de Accion de Gracias, mami," Santana chimed, ready to hang up. A loud rap on the front door aided in ending her call. "Gotta go mom, Kurt probably forgot his key again." Santana mumbled another quick goodbye before disconnecting and shoving her phone into the pocket of her sweatshirt.

"You know, I should start charging a fee for every time I have to open this damn door for you, Mary Kay," Santana warned, throwing back the lock and wrenching the door open. But it wasn't Kurt standing on the other side.

"Actually I use MAC," Quinn retorted, a playful smirk tugging the corner of her mouth upwards. "If we're being technical," she added, her smirk blossoming into a full blown smile.

"Always a sassy asshole," Santana volleyed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around Quinn. "What the hell are you doing here?" she questioned, squeezing just a bit tighter before pulling away.

"Coming from the queen of sarcasm…that's saying something," Quinn hummed, adjusting the shoulder strap of her duffle. "And that's the greeting I get for schlepping my ass all the way from Connecticut? Rude." Quinn followed Santana into the loft, dropping her bag next to the couch.

Santana's eyes rolled as she shook her head. "Can it, Fabray. It takes you two hours by train. You can even nap on the way," she called over her shoulder from the kitchen. Santana grabbed two water bottles from the refrigerator before joining Quinn on the couch. "No, but seriously. What are you doing here? I thought you were headed home for turkey day." Santana handed Quinn a water and leaned back against the plush sofa.

"I was. Until your mom told my mom that you were staying in the city. So I just altered my schedule a little bit," Quinn shrugged, carefully sipping from the plastic bottle. "My mom didn't really mind. I saw her a couple weeks ago when she came to visit. Besides, Frannie is bringing home her new flavor of the month and I have no patience to deal with that fiasco after the quarter I've had." She pushed back into the couch, tucking her feet beneath her hips. "I figured take out and a marathon of Meg Ryan movies with you wouldn't be half bad." Quinn smiled over the rim of the bottle before swallowing another sip.

"You and your fucking Meg Ryan movies," Santana goaded. She always teased Quinn about her penchant for the blonde actress, but rom-coms were Santana's guilty pleasure too. Quinn already knew that.

"Oh please. I bet you a hundred bucks that you have 'Sleepless in Seattle' and 'You've Got Mail' illegally downloaded on your computer right now." Quinn raised a challenging eyebrow. She knew Santana better than she knew herself.

"Shut up," Santana huffed, gently kicking Quinn's thigh. "Way to flaunt your dough in front of the poor," Santana chastised, earning an eyeroll from Quinn. Sharp wit and blunt truth, that's what their relationship had morphed into. High school was behind them, and so were the days of petty secrets and vicious backstabbing. They were both tiny fish in an unfathomable pond; it was stick together or die alone.

"Uh huh. Knew it." Santana's muttering didn't faze Quinn in the slightest. She merely leaned back against the arm of the couch and nursed her water in cocky silence.

After finishing their drinks and bickering about what food would suffice for the night, they finally reached a decision and trekked across four city blocks to order from the Mediterranean restaurant that Santana swore by. They split the cab fare back to Santana's loft and blustered through the door with takeout that was still warm. Quinn pulled off the sage green scarf that was draped around her neck as she watched Santana shrug off her coat. Once their outerwear was shed, Santana kicked off her boots and padded across the hardwood floor to pour two glasses of red wine. Multiple white Styrofoam containers were propped open on the coffee table when she got back to the living room and 'City of Angles' was set up in the DVD player.

An hour and a half later, the kabobs and basmati zafran rice were demolished and Quinn picked at the cucumber salad that was left on Santana's plate. "You had to choose _this_ movie," Santana sniffled, swiping at the tear trails that glistened on her face. She had cried in front of Quinn on numerous occasions, so losing her shit during a movie wasn't a big deal anymore.

Quinn half snorted, her own eyes wet with tears. "You're the one who owns the damn dvd," she defended, chasing the last bite of salad with the remainder of her wine. Quinn's skin was flushed and her movements were less coordinated due to the two bottles of merlot that she and Santana had polished off. It was moments like this that allowed both women to let their guards down, at least until the buzz wore off.

"Whatever," Santana breathed, tipping her glass vertically until the last maroon drop disappeared between her full lips. She honestly didn't care what they watched; it was just nice not to spend Thanksgiving alone. Santana set her wine glass on the coffee table and slumped back into the sofa. Quinn followed suit, shifting to lay her head on Santana's lap. It was almost immediate that Santana's nimble fingers were threading through Quinn's honey locks, massaging her scalp and scratching at the base of her neck.

"Mmmm yeah," Quinn hummed, completely at the mercy of Santana's skillful hands. "That feels really good, Tana." She was practically purring, her eyes closed and her breaths slowing; the erotic moan of approval made Santana shiver. They'd crossed the line from friends to lovers before, after Miss Pillsbury re-enacted Runaway Bride and left her wedding guests to party into the night on Mr. Schue's dime. According to Quinn it was a one night deal, but Santana always wondered if there was potential there. They never dealt with post-sex awkwardness. Everything just felt…normal.

In her inebriated state, Santana couldn't bite back her retort. "I can make you feel even better," she husked, her nails digging lightly into the nape of Quinn's neck. It was a cheesy line, sure, but it was Quinn. Santana knew that if she was game, it was on…simple as that.

Quinn stilled, the pulse in her neck jumping to a faster beat as her eyes blinked open. The room was silent, save for the last few lines of the movie that promptly faded into credits. She looked up into darkening mahogany eyes and waited three breaths before sitting up and capturing Santana's lips in a bruising kiss. It was definitely on.


	2. No Complaints

**Ask and ye shall receive! Since I've gotten some great feedback on this fic, I figured I'd throw in a little sexy times to keep you all interested. This one is a tad shorter, but the next chapter should be a little longer. Please comment/review and let me know if you'd like me to keep going. Feel free to follow my tumblr: rpsoliloquy**

**This story is un-beta'd**

* * *

Quinn's back gently arched from the mattress, a crescent against the purple silk of Santana's sheets. How they had managed to actually make it to the bed was still a blur. One moment Santana was sobbing over Nicolas Cage on the couch and the next, her head was trapped between Quinn's toned thighs. Not that she minded.

"San…I can't…" Quinn's words came panting out, a denial that Santana promptly ignored.

"I got you, Q," Santana reassured between kisses to Quinn's mound. "Show me how good this feels," she cooed, curling her fingers to reach the spot that made Quinn's blood feel like liquid lava.

"Oh fuck. Right…right there…" Quinn begged, grabbing fistfuls of Santana's raven hair.

Santana held onto Quinn's hips with one hand, pressing them into the bed, as she worked her fingers at a steady pace. When Quinn attempted to reach down and rub her clit, Santana smacked her hand away.

"No," she reprimanded, burying her fingers knuckle deep for emphasis. Quinn groaned in response, garnering Santana's characteristically cocky smirk. Santana altered her rhythm as Quinn's breathing became erratic and shallow. She could feel the muscles of Quinn's calves start to tighten in anticipation and took that as her sign to throw Quinn over the edge. Santana dropped her mouth against Quinn's center and swirled her tongue around the small bud of nerves that made Quinn's hips buck.

"Fuck!" Quinn's heels dug into Santana's back as she yanked on the tangled hair within her vice-like grip. That single word thrummed through Santana like a tremor, making her fingertips tingle and the junction between her legs pool with heat. Quinn was quaking as her climax peaked, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin.

Santana remained silent, save for her labored breathing, as she licked through Quinn's descent from orgasm. When Quinn 's body finally relaxed, Santana slipped her fingers from the suffocating heat and wiped the sticky slickness along Quinn's inner thigh and lower belly.

"And you thought you couldn't," Santana quipped, pulling herself up to kneel between Quinn's legs.

"Shut up," Quinn hummed, a lazy smile on her face. "You're ruining the afterglow for me." She flung her arms over her head, lifting her chest and expanding her ribcage for more air.

Santana's eyes dropped to Quinn's rosebud nipples, her tongue swiping across her lips. "If it wasn't for me, there wouldn't be an afterglow," Santana countered, gathering her hair and sweeping it to one side, a confident smile spread across her face. "And, Jesus, Q. Next time try not to scalp me."

Quinn's eyes batted open. "Are you complaining?" She raised a challenging eyebrow that was directly met with an eyeroll.

"Shut up," Santana mimicked Quinn's earlier words before planting a hand on either side of Quinn's head and hovering over her body. "I don't think either of us will have anything to complain about," she hummed, her hair creating a dark curtain around their faces.

"I would hope not," Quinn agreed. She shifted slightly, aligning her leg between Santana's. She took hold of Santana's hip and guided her down, flush to her thigh. Quinn bit her bottom lip, her pupils dilating, as she felt Santana's wet center slide against her smooth skin. "Damn, S."

Santana's breath hitched, the friction of Quinn's thigh a glorious relief. She rocked her hips, slowly at first, as Quinn's hands migrated to her ass. Santana lowered herself completely onto the woman beneath her and snaked her arms under Quinn's body to hook her hands around Quinn's shoulders for leverage.

"You made me so wet," Santana admitted against the downy hair at Quinn's temple while grinding down against the strong muscle between her legs. She could still smell the heady scent of Quinn's climax, causing another rush of arousal to seep against Quinn's skin. Santana's breathing turned to soft grunting as she continued to climb higher toward her climax with each figure eight of her hips.

Quinn hummed in approval, not as accustomed to dirty talk as Santana. She dropped a light trail of kisses along Santana's neck until she reached the thudding beat of Santana's pulse. She licked, the rhythm strong against her tongue, before sinking her teeth into tender flesh and sucking hard. Santana's hips jerked forward, a high-pitched whimper siphoning through her chest.

"Fuck, Q." Santana's undulations sped up, the creaking of the headboard evidence of Santana's strong thrusts. She was nearing the precipice when Quinn slid one hand between them and rubbed tight circles around Santana's clit. It only took three heartbeats for Santana's body to writhe on top of Quinn's, her forehead pressed into the mattress as she dug her nails onto Quinn's shoulders. Her body convulsed, abs tightening and toes curling as she rocked through the violence of her orgasm. When her hips finally slowed, she rolled off of Quinn and let out a satisfied moan. "Yeah…" she breathed, a broad smile erupting on her face, "…definitely no complaints."

Quinn released a low chuckle, turning her body towards Santana. "Anything worth doing is worth doing right," she stated, reaching out to brush Santana's hair out of her face. Her fingers trailed along Santana's jaw and meandered down to the dark purple oval blossoming on Santana's neck. "Sorry about that."

Santana closed her lids briefly before locking eyes with Quinn. "Don't be." She pulled Quinn in and tangled their legs together. While she tended to come off as a cold fish in public, Santana actually enjoyed cuddling. She draped her arm around Quinn and danced the pads of her fingertips against milky skin. "You were just trying to…_gobble_…me up." Santana snorted and craned her neck to see Quinn's reaction. "Get it? Gobble?"

Quinn pinched her eyes closed and pressed her lips into a line to keep from laughing at Santana's horrendous pun. But when she opened her eyes to Santana's mirthful gaze, Quinn couldn't help but shake her head. "You're an idiot."


	3. Elephant in the Room

**Thanks again for the feedback and the follows! I'm glad you all are enjoying this little story. Please leave comments, questions, and reviews so I know you're still diggin' the vibe. **

**This story is unbeta'd.**

* * *

Metal on metal, the clang of pots and pans, roused Santana from her coma-like sleep. She muffled a groan into her pillow and attempted to roll over, but another body barricaded the opposite side of the bed. Santana's eyes blinked open to the defined contours of a toned back and golden hair sprawled across her purple linen. Memories from the night before flooded Santana's mind and she leaned over to verify the reality.

Quinn.

Unfazed by the identity of the woman in her bed, Santana merely yawned and pulled the comforter over their bodies. She shifted down into their cocoon and looped her arm over Quinn's waist. Ten minutes later another audible bang from the kitchen dragged Santana from the bed. She muttered beneath her breath as she pulled on an oversized NYU sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants, leaving a softly snoring Quinn in a sated slumber.

"For the love of god, it's 8 am," Santana grumbled, wrenching her hoodie over her messy hair as she padded out to the living room. "Give it a rest, June Cleaver." She plopped onto the couch as Kurt flitted about the kitchen.

"It's almost 10, Santana," Kurt deadpanned, ignoring the feminine nickname as he slammed another cabinet. "Maybe you wouldn't have such a hard time getting up if you didn't guzzle _stolen_ wine all night." He pivoted to face the living room. "Because, really? Both bottles? I got those as a gift from Vogue," he reprimanded, hand on his hip.

"First of all, take it down a notch, Tyra," Santana demanded, covering her eyes with her arm. "Or twenty." She waited a few minutes as the pounding in her head subsided. Along with her cotton mouth, the headache was just another bonus of her dehydrated state. "I'll score you some more booze with my next paycheck," Santana offered.

"Those were 2009 Ridge Monte Bello's, Santana," Kurt explained, folding his arms across his chest as he approached the couch. "$150 a piece."

Santana dropped her arm away from her face and looked up at Kurt with a scrunched nose. "How the fuck was I supposed to know that?" She sat up and faced her roommate. "Besides, they've been sitting there, collecting dust, for months."

Kurt stared at her, knowing full well that Santana was trying to get off scot free by playing dumb. "It's called vintage wine for a reason, Santana. The whole purpose is to let it age to perfection before indulging. You, on the other hand, gulped it down like water." Kurt cocked his head to the side, waiting for a retort.

An irritated growl issued from Santana's chest. "Whatever," she barked, clearly too annoyed to care. "I'll cut you a check." Santana flopped back down on the sofa and sulked as Kurt rounded the coffee table.

"Also, I get that you and your latest conquest were eager and most likely drunk off of superb wine, but try to be at least a little classy." Kurt lowered himself onto the loveseat opposite Santana and crossed one leg over the other. "I love Chantilly as much as the next girl, but that's just tacky." He nodded toward the far end of the couch where sapphire lace was pinched between the cushions. "And unsanitary. This is a public space. Not that that deters you in any way, I'm sure"

Santana's brows furrowed. She begrudgingly shifted from her position and caught sight of blue panties that she had tugged down Quinn's porcelain legs. Heat crawled up Santana's neck and set her ears on fire as she snatched the underwear from its trap and stuffed it into her pocket. "Excuse me, Mr. Backseat Humpington, I didn't realize you were the expert on class acts," Santana countered. "And just because - "

"San, have you seen my under…" Quinn interrupted Santana's burgeoning tirade but halted midway into the room when she spotted Kurt poised on the edge of his chair. "Hey," she chimed, combing her fingers through her ruffled hair.

Kurt glanced between Santana and Quinn, his eyes widening with realization. His mouth dropped open, but the fiery blaze of Santana's glare kept him from uttering a peep.

"Happy belated Thanksgiving," Quinn relayed, walking over to give Kurt a hug.

"Yeah…Happy Thanksgiving," Kurt managed, his eyes still locked on Santana as he gave Quinn a quick squeeze. "This is a surprise… " Kurt stepped back and focused on Quinn even though he could feel Santana's eyes burning holes into his skull.

"Oh, well my Thanksgiving plans kind of got…Snixed," she hummed. "Since Santana was staying in the city, I figured I'd come up here and do some Black Friday shopping." Quinn forced a bright smile. "There's not much for deals in New Haven," she added, shrugging her shoulders. She was lying through her teeth and everyone in the room knew it, but they all played along anyway. "We froze our asses off waiting for Best Buy to open and didn't even get the camera I wanted."

Kurt had to admit it sounded believable. If he hadn't noticed the panties or the empty bottles of wine, it never would have crossed his mind that Quinn was made another notch on Santana's never-ending bedpost. "That's a shame," he consoled, nodding his head. His eyes danced between Santana and Quinn as the lull in talking became an uncomfortable, bloated quiet. Santana picked at a loose thread on the couch and Quinn shifted her weight from one leg to the other with her hands clasped in front of her. "Well, unfortunately I'm just heading out." Kurt pierced the silence and pushed himself out of the loveseat. "It was really great to see you, Quinn. If you're still here tonight, we should all have dinner," he suggested, giving her another hug.

"Definitely," Quinn agreed. She tucked some stray locks behind her ear as Kurt grabbed his messenger back and phone from the kitchen counter. He hurried out of the loft with a small wave goodbye before the tense silence could suffocate him. "Please tell me that wasn't as awkward as it seemed," Quinn groaned after the door had clicked shut.

"Oh no. It wasn't awkward at all," Santana bit back sarcastically. "Especially since I had these in my pocket the whole time," she announced, brandishing Quinn's lace underwear.

* * *

"You sure you don't wanna stay the night?" Santana flipped the page on her magazine as Quinn busied herself with packing her duffel. "I could make it worth your while," she crooned, looking up from a perfume ad to waggle her eyebrows.

Quinn rolled her eyes and let a soft laugh filter past her lips. "As tempting as that is, you're out of wine and I don't think there would be any fireworks with Kurt sleeping next door. Getting through dinner was bad enough." She folded her shirt and neatly tucked it into her bag. "He looked like a nauseated deer in headlights."

Santana let out a deep laugh. "So true!" she crowed. The awkward silence had descended upon the dinner table as the threesome ignored the elephant in the room. Mostly they pushed food around their plates until finally excusing themselves, which was why Santana's stomach released a muted growl. She placed her hand on her torso with a pout. "Screw Bambi." Santana closed her magazine and looked into hazel eyes. "We don't need wine to have fun, Quinnie. I may have given up dinner, but there's no way I'm giving up dessert." A devilish smirk skirted across her face. "So come here and gimme some sugar." Santana tossed the magazine onto the floor and crooked her finger, beckoning Quinn closer.

"Real charming," Quinn snickered, kneeling onto the bed. She crawled over to Santana and adjusted herself to straddle muscular thighs. "Does the shit you say actually work?" She rolled her hips. _Once. Twice._

"I don't know. Does it?" Santana teased. She bit her bottom lip and let her hands drift to Quinn's hips.

Quinn rocked against Santana a few more times before leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Definitely not." She pulled away with a laugh and tumbled onto her side, leaving Santana flabbergasted.

"If I had balls, they'd be blue," Santana grumbled. She shot a disgruntled look at Quinn.

"Oh boo hoo, Santana. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly certain that you were the one to come up with our Celibacy Club motto. So suck it up and try to tolerate the taste of your own medicine." Quinn sat up, her smile still beaming.

"Tease dicks and please chicks. That's my new motto," Santana huffed, her annoyance morphing into playful banter.

"You may want to work on that a bit more." Quinn's words lilted with laughter. It was nice to be around Santana when their conversation was fun and spirited and not the usual competitive catfight it was in high school.

"Asshole," Santana snorted. She relished in the jovial mood before scooting off the bed and picking up Quinn's duffel. "Come on, jerk. I'll take you to the train station. And you can buy me McDonalds on the way."

"You want the Mc-D," Quinn quipped, hopping off the bed and following Santana out of the bedroom.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Fabray."


	4. Comfort and Joy

**Alright, Alright! Hello to all of my fellow Quinntana shippers. Thank you, again, for all the follows and comments! Here are a few things I should probably clarify:**

**1) I'm a multishipper, but this story is Quinntana centric.**

**2) For the life of me I can't seem to get a chapter over 2k words, so what you see is what you get.**

**3) Headcanon wise: This story is semi-canon. The only major differences from the original plotpoint is that Brittany graduated with her class and Puck and Quinn do not become a couple again. If any other variations pop up, I'll let you all know! **

**Happy Reading!**

**As always, this story is unbeta'd.**

* * *

Cornucopias and turkeys were promptly replaced by pointy-eared elves and jolly Saint Nicks as November gave way to December. The icy streets of New York buzzed with activity as camera-happy tourists and holiday shoppers bustled through the cold. Santana dodged the crowds with expert precision as she tapped her fingers quickly over the screen of her phone. Since their little rendezvous, Quinn had surprisingly taken the bait of Santana's naughty texts and the two had found a rhythm of sexting that felt oddly natural. It amused Santana to no end that the former president of the Celibacy Club had found yet another euphemism for eating her out.

Santana was seconds away from pressing send when her phone vibrated and the instrumental of Back to Black started blaring.

"Well well, aren't you the eager beaver," Santana taunted, her cell pressed to her ear as a wry smile blossomed on her face. "Couldn't even wait for my response?"

"This isn't a booty call, so leave my beaver out of it," Quinn volleyed. Santana could practically hear Quinn's smirk.

"Not according to the text I just got from you." Santana sidestepped a sketchy looking Chris Kringle and caught site of an empty cab. "But nevertheless you've managed to capture my attention. What's up, Rainbow Brite?" She tossed her luggage into the trunk before sliding into the backseat.

"Before you say no, just keep in mind that rum will be provided." Quinn's voice dipped into skeptic territory.

"JFK," Santana yapped at the cabby before focusing back on Quinn. "First off, it's not fair that you know my kryptonite. And secondly, why do I have an impending feeling of dread settling into my bones?" Santana shifted in her seat to lean her elbow against the door.

"Could you be more melodramatic?" Quinn complained. "Contrary to what you believe, your life is not a telenovela." Having known Santana for as long as she had, Quinn could bite back and not be afraid of the repercussions. "A night at Rachel's isn't going to kill you. You've lived with her in the city for over a year, for heaven's sake."

Santana could hear the huffiness in Quinn's voice and pictured angular cheekbones dusted with the pale pink of exasperation. "Are you shitting me? You still have a hard on for her damn Ugly Christmas Sweater Party?" Santana picked at her cuticles. "How many times have I said no? Besides, it's one thing to room with the Doublemint Twins to save on rent, it's another thing entirely to toast eggnog and sing The Dreidel Song around a yule log. Not to mention…she's Jewish!" Santana exclaimed, the cabby glancing at her through the rearview mirror. Really, her relationship with Rachel was borderline normal; amends were made and their past was water under the bridge. Santana caught the driver's gaze before cocking her head to the side and giving him a 'mind your own damn business' staredown.

"You're awful," Quinn chided. Santana was never the best at holding her tongue, but Quinn had assumed that after living with Rachel for almost two years, she'd at least have some sort of filter in place. "And for your information, it's an Ugly _Holiday_ Sweater Party. Non-denominational, asshole."

Dark eyes rolled, followed by a huff through plump lips. "Excuse me, PC Police," Santana muttered. Quinn definitely wasn't afraid to call her on her bullshit. "Give me one good reason I should go to this stupid, sure to be mind-numbing, party. Especially since my outfits are always on point," she added.

"Aside from the fact that you'll have plenty of blackmail, given the attire?" Quinn pointed out, hoping to highlight a pro for Santana's attendance. "Well…you get to see me." Quinn was scraping the bottom of the barrel, but she had already told Rachel they'd be there and it was now her duty to manipulate Santana into going.

"I get to see you anyway," Santana shrugged, not falling for Quinn's attempt at bribery.

"Oh come off it, Santana. Just suck it up and come with me. It's only a few hours of being nice and then you can go back to being the Grinch," Quinn reproached. For once she just wanted Santana to make things easy.

Quinn's hardening voice had Santana shifting in her seat again. No, she didn't really want to go to the damn party/snoozefest, but Quinn's insistence was wearing her down.

"Calm down, Cindy Lou Who, before you give yourself an aneurysm." Santana sighed into the phone, succumbing to Quinn's persistent prodding. "I'll go on one condition," she bargained, holding up her index finger for emphasis even though Quinn couldn't see it. "We're spiking the shit out of that eggnog."

* * *

Save for the moderate turbulence and the extra pack of pretzels, Santana's flight back to Ohio was nothing special. She'd met her parents at baggage claim, their glassy eyes and bright smiles making her heart hurt, before driving back to Lima through the mild snowfall. The first few days home were quiet and relaxing, reserved strictly for family. By midweek, cabin fever had set in and Santana was actually looking forward to the once-dreaded Berry Extravaganza.

"I can't believe you made me wear this," Santana grumbled, looking down at the hideous sweater that was stretched across her chest. Small brass bells were attached haphazardly all over the cream material. And as if that wasn't bad enough, 'Jingle All The Way' was embroidered in gold thread across her back. "There better be a fucking prize for this shit," she added.

"The whole point is to wear an ugly sweater, Santana. Now stop being a spoil sport and take this," Quinn ordered, pressing the bottle of Bacardi into Santana's arms. Quinn's sweater, though not as festive, was a gaudy weave of metallic red and green that could easily be mistaken for colored tinfoil.

"You're what's gonna get me through the night," Santana cooed while stroking her palm over the glass bottle.

"You're ridiculous," Quinn scolded, slamming her car door and locking it with the remote. A sneaky smirk flashed across her face before she slipped a pair of reindeer antlers atop Santana's head. "I rest my case," she added, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

"Oh hells no," Santana started, reaching up to wrench the offending headgear off. "I'm already a walking musical instrument, Rudolph." Santana shoved the antlers onto Quinn's head.

"Whatever, I totally rock them," Quinn disregarded, walking up the snowy slope of Rachel's front yard.

"Yeah…right." Santana followed, her eyes slowly drifting to the sway of Quinn's hips.

* * *

Rachel's squeal of delight at Santana and Quinn's appearance was nearly enough to send Santana flying for the door. Anchored in place by Quinn's death grip, Santana could only offer a tight-lipped smile before cracking the top off the Bacardi bottle and heading straight for the punch bowl.

Over the course of an hour, familiar faces began filling the Berry's basement. Tina, Kurt, and Artie were fawning over Puck's military garb. Mercedes and Sam were huddled in a corner, all smiles and soft touches, and Mike and Brittany were freestyling to the holiday mix that Rachel had queued on her iPod.

The small reunion, though bathed in the colorful glow of rainbow Christmas lights, felt dim. An off kilter uneasiness had seeped into Santana as she realized that the missing piece of their dysfunctional puzzle was Finn. Sure, the two had had their differences, but the reality of his death still had Santana waking in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. As always, Santana swallowed her feelings and batted away the tears that pricked at the back of her eyes. She couldn't be weak. She wouldn't. In an attempt to combat the roiling bitterness that was building within her, Santana helped herself to multiple glasses of punch.

"There's not even eggnog," Santana grumbled forty minutes later as she tipped the tainted pink juice into her mouth. "What kind of holiday party doesn't have eggnog?" She had to talk about something to keep her mind off of the glaringly obvious missing face.

"You hate eggnog," Quinn derided, finishing off her own dose of the spiked fruit juice.

"That's not the point, Fabray," Santana started, preparing to delve into debate. But Santana's thought process was thwarted as Rachel took to her makeshift stage and bellowed into the solitary microphone.

How could Rachel be singing? How could anyone here be merry and bright when one of their own wouldn't be opening Christmas presents or ringing in the New Year? A soft sob bubbled out of Santana, a precursor to the onslaught of a much bigger breakdown. Though Quinn was nowhere near sober, she could sense the burgeoning tidal wave of Santana's emotions.

"San, how about we get some air?" Quinn offered, steadying herself on her feet before holding out her hand to Santana.

"No." It was a simple refusal, the cornerstone of Santana's stubbornness.

Ignoring Santana's response, Quinn pulled her from the couch. "We'll be right back," Quinn called over her shoulder as she ushered Santana towards the door.

"No means no, Bo Peep," Santana contested as her feet shuffled up the single flight of stairs to the first floor.

"True. However, I'm fairly certain that, while you're not her number one fan, you would feel like a total asshole if you ruined a party that Rachel worked very hard to orchestrate." Quinn wrapped an arm around Santana's waist to stabilize her.

Santana merely huffed in response as the two stumbled out into the chilly night, their breaths puffing into wispy white clouds that dissipated toward the stars.

"I've seen you weepy a thousand times, but this is different. So spill." Quinn kept Santana close, their body heat circulating between them.

Another sob choked out from Santana's chest as tears finally breached her lids. She shook her head, adamant about remaining the stone pillar she claimed to be, even though she was crumbling. Santana swiped angrily at the hot tears that threatened to freeze to her cheeks. "It's not fair," she hiccupped, an ebbing storm of anger and sadness.

Blonde brows furrowed in confusion. Quinn was good at reading Santana, but sometimes even she couldn't traverse the labyrinth of Santana's mind.

"What isn't fair, San?" Quinn coaxed, stopping their trek at the end of the driveway.

Santana's body was trembling. From her sobs or from the cold, Quinn wasn't sure; probably a combination of the two.

The quietness of the empty street was punctuated by Santana's choppy breaths. Quinn waited patiently as the woman in her arms finally allowed herself to process the feelings she kept bottled up for so long.

"He should be here," Santana wailed, the last piece of her resolve dissolving faster than her breath. "We're all here and he should be here," she repeated, her words gurgling with tears.

Quinn squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed the bile that teased the back of her throat. She knew in an instant that Santana was referring to Finn. Each of them handled their grief differently. Puck manned up and got his shit together by joining the Air Force, Kurt set up a charity in Finn's name that was backed by a subsector of Vogue, and Carol started a Lima branch of MADD. Unfortunately, Santana's coping mechanism was to press that grief into a tight ball that festered until it split open, spewing forth months of repressed hostility.

"I know," Quinn hushed, her own eyes hot with tears. "We all miss him, San." Quinn wrapped her arms around Santana's quaking body and rubbed soothing circles against her back. It wasn't the first time Quinn had held Santana as she fractured into a million pieces, and it never got any easier. The soft jingle of the bells on Santana's shirt made Quinn crack a smile. "Hey," she whispered, pulling away enough to gently wipe the saltwater from Santana's cheeks. It was the same tear-stained face that had looked up at her when Brittany had chosen Artie and when Dani had dropped off the face of the planet. It was the beauty in the breakdown that Quinn hated to love; the way Santana was raw and unguarded. Dark, bloodshot eyes stared back at Quinn as she swept the pad of her thumb over the apple of Santana's cheek. "Missing him doesn't make you weak, Santana," Quinn explained. "It makes you human."

Santana's face cracked as she nodded. Quinn had the uncanny ability to see right through her. It was at times both freeing and incredibly debilitating. Santana released a shuddering breath that lingered like a fog between them. She searched Quinn's eyes, the coppery gaze providing strength and reassurance. "Thank you," she finally managed, the tightness in her throat replaced by the thud of her heart against her sternum. Be it the alcoholic haze or the sting of the frigid air, Santana needed to be closer to Quinn. She hooked her arms around Quinn's neck and sealed their mouths together in a kiss that felt like aloe to a burn.

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**I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Please leave a review and let me know what you think/liked/didn't like. And as a little gift, because 'tis the season, you can see what was happening at the party when Quinn and Santana had their little 1x1! **

**Go check out Crossing Boundaries: The Good Guy, the beautiful behind the scenes oneshot by takeyouraim**


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